Playing the PartAuthor:
Lucius Malfoy/Severus Snape.Rating:
Authority Role Play (Auror)Other Warnings/Content:
Light D/s, blow jobs, first war era.Word Count:
“The Draught of Delirium,” Lucius drawls, faintly curious, and Severus ignores him as he adds the aconite, the cauldron’s contents bubbling at the new addition, smoke coiling up and out, filling the air with something vaguely floral: not pleasant, but not entirely unpleasant either. “Highly illegal.” A pause, then. Followed with: “How scandalous.”Author's Notes:
I’m so sorry I’ve been so MIA, the muse seemed to have packed its bags and run off, and rl has kept me offline much more than I’d like. But I wanted to get this in before the move, so. I hope you enjoy! ♡
Severus hears him before he sees him, the old, heavy door of Malfoy Manor’s potions hut opening with a creak, followed by the thump of feet as heavy, expensive boots meet stone. He knows who it is immediately.
“I’m busy,” he says before Lucius can so much as speak, eyes flicking to the blond figure before returning to the cauldron in front of him. He means it, too. The potion he’s working on is at a crucial stage, the ingredients for the next three steps lined neatly on the bench, ready for use. He has one eye on the clock and the other on the changing colours of his concoction: a dusting of green twirling together in the middle of a deep caramel, growing stronger as the seconds tick past, the pinch of pixie dust he’d just mixed in slowly taking effect. He does not have time for this.
Lucius tuts, a soft, slow click of his tongue. It’s haughty, aristocracy leaking through even now. Severus hates it, that sound, the way it makes his skin itch. The way it clearly says, is that how I’m to be spoken to? Lucius hasn’t used it on him in years, not since amicability had transitioned to proper friendship. To something more.
The door shuts, lock carefully clicking into place. More footsteps, softer now, as Lucius moves toward the bench, circles his workspace. He eyes the prepared ingredients: the shredded aconite, the vial of belladonna, the small collection of lovage, leaves bright and green and neatly cut. Poisonous, all of it. Or, at least, filled with the potential to be. Especially when put together. Severus spares another glance, catches the slight tilt to Lucius’ mouth. He’s obviously put it together.
“The Draught of Delirium,” Lucius drawls, faintly curious, and Severus ignores him as he adds the aconite, the cauldron’s contents bubbling at the new addition, smoke coiling up and out, filling the air with something vaguely floral: not pleasant, but not entirely unpleasant either. “Highly illegal.” A pause, then. Followed with: “How scandalous.”
Severus snorts, counting the seconds as they pass, the vial of belladonna held in hand. “You’re one to talk,” he says, watching as a single drop of liquid hits the surface, the deep green fizzing, morphing to a gentle mauve as he stirs the ladle. Thrice anti-clockwise, once clockwise. Repeat.
There’s a laugh behind him, low and lethal. He feels rather than sees Lucius move: a body settling behind his own, the edge of a robe brushing his back, heat radiating in waves that Severus can feel. He sighs as the tips of Lucius’ fingers graze his elbow, the older man eyeing the recipe over his shoulder.
“The beauty of discretion,” Lucius murmurs, breath hitting Severus’ cheek. His voice hardens, then, cool and clipped as he continues, “Will you not defend yourself, Mr. Snape? An individual caught with this quantity could land themselves in Azkaban.”
It’s said with an air of authority, is met with plain confusion. Severus moves from Lucius’ grasp to add the strips of lovage, expression twisted as he considers the words. He gets as far as What before he’s cut off.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with your affiliation to the Dark Lord, now, would it?”
It clicks, then, what he’s doing. Lucius’ little game of roleplay. Severus almost wants to laugh, his eyebrow quirked when he turns to look at his lover, but it’s a cool mask that stares back at him, Lucius’ face creased with a look of expectancy. Impatience.
Severus swallows. A tickle of excitement shooting down his spine. “I have no affiliation with the Dark Lord,” he says, slipping into the role. It’s strange at first, almost awkward; his inexperience with this kind of thing evident in a way he hates. But the hesitancy slowly falls away, replaced by the low thrum of arousal as Lucius gives him a once-over.
“No?” he asks, obviously skeptical.
Severus resists the urge to smile. “No.”
A lie, of course. As Lucius damn well knows. He’s brewing the Draught on the Dark Lord’s orders, the single batch enough to render hundreds useless with delirium, the contents deadly with a carefully-calculated dosage. He’s being paid a small fortune for his efforts, and he has no intentions of not delivering.
That’s why, once the lovage has mixed in adequately, he sets the cauldron to simmer: the next step in his revised version of the recipe an hour-long lull. It should be long enough for whatever Lucius has in mind.
He’s pulled away seconds after it’s safe to do so, Lucius pressing him against a different bench and talking in his ear. “No other illicit activities?”
“How very unlike you,” Lucius breathes, parting his legs with a nudge of his thigh. “You won’t object to a search, then?”
Not so much a question as it is an order. Severus complies with what’s implied: palms resting flat on the empty bench, his head bowed and feet set apart. He’s impassive at first, blank as Lucius drags hands from his waist to beneath his arms, fingers plucking his shirt from where it’d been tucked. They dip further, removing his wand from its holder and emptying his pockets, the sparse contents left discarded beside his hands: a stray note of muggle money, a cigarette holder that’s mostly empty. It’s only when Lucius starts to rub that he gets a reaction, a low groan catching in Severus’ throat as a hand squeezes his half-hard cock, Lucius’ own arousal pressing to the curve of his arse.
“Is this protocol?” he asks, a feigned flicker of fear colouring his tone. It’s met with a puff of air at his neck, Lucius’ laugh barely audible.
“An Auror is useless,” he starts, pulling the zip of Severus’ trousers, his fingers grasping Severus’ cock through the thin material of his pants, “when they are not thorough.”
The line is terrible, Severus thinks. He almost breaks character. Would, if not for the way Lucius moves his hand, the flick of his wrist pulling a quiet moan from Severus’ throat. He does it again and again, over and over until Severus is fully hard and almost leaking; Lucius’ own arousal growing at Severus’ side. He breathes through his teeth, resists the urge to buck against Lucius’ touch.
The pressure is gone almost as quick as it comes. One second there, and the next not: Lucius stepping away completely, his hands folded behind his back when Severus twists his neck to see.
“Did I pass?” he says, but he can’t rid himself of the sarcasm completely. His tone underpinned by a familiar mockery.
Lucius’ eyes narrow. “There’s still the matter of your potion.”
Right, Severus thinks. And then, as he takes in Lucius’ stance, the way he leans against the side of the bench, casual but cocky, right. He thinks he finally understands the rules.
“Not a matter for the Ministry, surely,” he says, taking an experimental step forward.
“You’d be surprised,” Lucius informs him, and Severus catches the flicker of humour in his eyes. They both know it’s far from the truth, know that Severus is well aware of the legal consequences for possessing illegal substances, never mind the distribution of long-banned poisons. It’s how he makes his livelihood.
Severus looks up at him, then. Head tilted back, shoulders curved to shorten their breadth, to make him look smaller. He knows he isn’t pretty. Knows that it isn’t a matter of widening his eyes and batting his eyelashes and licking his lips—doubts that those things would appeal to Lucius’ warped desire for control, anyway. No. It’s not about beauty. It’s about knowing Lucius, about understanding what attracts him. Right now, it’s his submission: a willing surrender of control; permission for Lucius to take what he wants. For it to be offered.
“What if,” he starts, the proposition clear in his tone, “we come to an agreement?”
Another ridiculous line, Severus thinks, but apparently the right thing to say. The humour is gone from Lucius’ eyes, replaced by something feral and hungry. His intentions clear to anyone who can read him.
“Soliciting an Auror can get you into serious trouble,” he says, but where his voice had once been cool and clear, it has an edge to it now. Something heated. Affected.
Severus smiles. “Only if you tell.”
A twitch of a mouth, and then Lucius is parting his robes, long fingers unfastening the clasp and letting the fabric fall at his sides, revealing the tent in his trousers. “Kneel,” he orders, and Severus listens easily enough.
He drops to his knees at Lucius’ feet, hand curled around the bench to steady himself. They must make a sight, he thinks, Lucius standing tall and lordly in his expensive robes as Severus kneels in tattered work clothes: outer robe discarded in favour of a plain shirt, sleeves rolled and wrists bandaged, his hair tied in a knot at the nape of his neck.
He knows better than to drag it out. There’s still a scene, one that should be at least somewhat realistic. His fingers work Lucius’ fly, pulling pants and trousers down in one go to reveal the impressive cock beneath: long and hard and leaking lightly. For his part, Lucius doesn’t offer any help. Just stands, elbows on the bench’s edge, looking down at him as if to ask, Well?
Severus can’t help himself. “Should I tell you how big it is?” he asks, his voice a dry drawl. “Wonder how I’ll get it to fit?”
His answer is a hand in his hair, Lucius’ grip quick and painful as it tugs, a surprised gasp caught in Severus’ throat as he’s forced to arch. “Don’t be smart,” Lucius warns, his hold relaxing, and Severus shifts. Message clear, he thinks.
He reaches up without prompting, one hand curling around Lucius’ shaft and working the length, smearing the precome collected at the tip. His mouth follows, Lucius granting a soft sigh for his efforts as Severus takes the head of his cock between his lip, tongue lapping at the sensitive flesh, his eyes closing as he slackens his jaw. Swallows as much as he can get.
Which turns out to be most of it. It’s a practiced art, this. He knows what Lucius likes: the way he sighs when Severus swallows him down, the way he swears at the gentle graze of teeth, at the vibration when Severus hums around him, when hands slide across his inner thighs and squeeze. It’s the little things learnt with experience, Severus thinks.
He pulls out all the tricks. Figures that he may as well put on a show. He squeezes his own prick as his mouth settles to a rhythm, Lucius’ cock slipping in and out, Severus’ jaw starting to ache as Lucius’ hips buck off the bench, the other man taking control. He gags, once, as Lucius settles a hand on the back of his head, uses it to guide him closer, get more into his mouth. It’s his only mishap, but even then, he knows the way that gets to Lucius, too: the sight of him flushed and breathless, spit smeared across his cheek.
“Do this a lot, do you?” Lucius taunts. Or, at least, he tries to. It’s too breathy for the full effect.
Severus opens his eyes, black staring into grey. He maintains contact as he hums, tongue licking across the vein as best he can with his mouth full, their eyes still locked as Lucius’ movements grow erratic. Unrestrained.
Lucius gives no warning for his orgasm. When it happens, it’s with a low groan. Is with thick bursts of come that hit the back of Severus’ throat, the bitter taste lingering on his tongue as he swallows it down, Lucius’ cock slipping from his mouth before it can soften; his lips left shining with a mix of saliva and semen. Severus takes a deep breath and then another, barely paying attention as Lucius uses his thumb to gather the mess. He sucks the finger when it’s shoved into his mouth, his own arousal making itself known at the intrusion: not so much forgotten until now as it’d been put on hold.
“Up,” Lucius says, his hand falling away. Severus stands on unsteady feet, silently thankful when an arm curls around his middle and pulls him close. Lucius kisses him here, harsh and heated, his tongue moving against Severus’ like he’s fuelled by some sort of narcissistic desire to taste himself in the other’s mouth. Knowing him, Severus thinks, he is.
“Is that really what gets you off?” Severus asks as they break apart. He takes a moment to consider Lucius’ flushed skin, the relaxed lift to his mouth. “A fabricated display of power?”
Lucius hums, noncommittal. “I’m not the only one who enjoyed it,” he says, knee pressing against Severus’ erection as if to prove the point. Severus swallows the groan that itches his throat. Refuses to give Lucius the satisfaction.
“I hope you plan on doing something about that,” he murmurs, and Lucius kisses him again, teeth nipping at his bottom lip as hands settle on his hips, a solid pressure guiding him backwards, toward the bench.
“I do,” he says, deep and feral, his good-person persona slipping away as his mouth presses to Severus’ neck.